


Where the Grass Grows Greener

by ohthatscold



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, F/M, Flowers, Hanahaki Disease, Pining, Unrequited Love, kind of a little bit of blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohthatscold/pseuds/ohthatscold
Summary: In the fresh wake of Spring, all it takes is a broken nose to make him realise what he never had.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Reader, Amamiya Ren (Persona Series)/Reader, Kurusu Akira/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47





	1. The Unnerving Events of a Bruised Nose

The pain in his nose is sharp, sudden and heavy.

It splits evenly across his face, the familiar warmth of iron dripping to his lips where he catches the taste of rubies on his tongue.

Accidents. Things that are starting to get a little more frequent now that he’s flashing up on more TV screens across Tokyo. He can’t blame the girl, he’s sure she doesn’t mean to drive her elbow at full force into his face, sending a tingle zipping right through the bridge of his nose that makes him groan.

Always the gentleman (he has a reputation to uphold after all) he’s the first one to apologise, a muffled ‘sorry’ from behind his glove that he’s sure she barely hears beneath the screaming girls around him that fracture any hopes of solitude he might’ve had. Everything’s noticed, as always, and the blood running from his nose is no exception.

The ever crowded streets of Shibuya somehow squeeze tighter together, more compact and claustrophobic, and he barely has room to lift a tissue to his injury. Possibility of a broken nose doesn’t ring any bells until he hears calls for an ambulance from nondescript voices. That wouldn’t do, princely detectives don’t appear on national television with bruised broken noses, an ugly bend in their façade. And while the concept of an ambulance seems unnecessary at best, (he could easily get driven there privately), it might offer him a moment of quiet away from the watchful eyes of the public.

So that skin deep smile creeps to his lips again, where he offers gracious thank you’s to the horrified girl who caused the incident, trembling words falling from her lips into her phone.

How unfortunate that an ambulance was his last resort at a bit of peace and quiet.

* * *

“Well you’ll be pleased to hear your nose is as good as new.”

As if to check, Akechi runs the tips of his fingers across the bridge and peak of his nose, pinching satisfactorily at the point of it. An unexpected ache surprises him, pain searing across the middle of his face when he brushes over an unseen purple bruise.

“And yes,” the doctor chuckles, seemingly at his reaction, and a small jolt of irritation runs through Akechi, threatening to crack his polite smile, “naturally, there will be bruising and pain. It’s best not to touch it.”

Thankful, genuinely for what feels like the first time in years, he widens his smile. “Thank you, doctor. Though, I really should be going now…”

With a hand halfway to his briefcase, he finds himself stuck, waiting, after an uncomfortable cough catches his attention. “…Is there something else?”

“At the request of your caller, we ran some extra tests just in case. And in our x-rays we found something quite…unusual, to say the least.” He hands a sheet to Akechi, what he can only assume to be the aforementioned scan.

That annoyance from before creeps up the back of his neck, hot and uncomfortable, prickling each nerve along the nape. This was all such a fuss for just one little-

“Oh.”

Lifeless blacks and whites paint the picture of his lungs, bold and blooming at the bottom left of his chest. The cluster of blossoms sit tucked away, a blink and you’ll miss it bundle of bitter little petals that threaten to creep and branch around him, suffocating him from the inside out.

It’s strangely beautiful, despite it all.

He can’t help the twitch of his fingers as they itch to trace the image again, gently feeling each crease and crinkle, curiously outlining every blemish. He can’t help but think of who they might belong to, though it doesn’t take long to narrow the list down- _really_ narrow it down.

“You’re lucky we caught it this early.” The doctor stares carefully at him, and Akechi’s confused as to whether he expects him to be glad about it. “I’m sure you know the severity of this condition. It seems you have quite a choice to make.”

His answer’s already at the front of his brain. Waiting, as risky as it is, is all he wants to do.

But he supposes cutting it out won’t change much about him anyway.

“We’ll give you a month to decide.” He pulls the glossed paper from his hands, tucks it carefully back away in the file, but even without it in front of him, Akechi can still see every line burning behind his eyelids. “Until then, I recommend you find someone to take you home. Perhaps pick up some ice on your way. Is there someone you’d like to call?”

* * *

The sudden loud buzz of your phone on Akira’s dresser diverts your attention from his lips.

Without realising it, your reciprocation of his gesture significantly deteriorates, which he doesn’t miss as he lets a small laugh slip between you.

“This only works if we’re both involved.” He says, loosening his grip on your hips.

“Sorry,” you shake your head, eyes finding the glow of your phone. “It’s just, I think it’s important. No one ever calls me.”

Knowing what he’s about to say ( _But I call you all the time_ ) you raise a finger to his lips, leaning over to answer your phone.

“Hello?”

“Thank god, I thought you’d never answer.” You recognise his softly lined voice, tentative yet full in its nature, even though it lacks its usual courage.

Confused, you feel your brow lower. “Akechi? Is everything alright?” Behind you, you feel the weight of Akira on the bed shift, and he’s sat beside you, eyes neutral as always but with a sudden sharpness to them at the mention of Akechi’s name. 

“Yes, yes. It’s fine.” Impatience laces his words and that crease between your eyebrows gets heavier. “I need you to come and get me.”

“What? Akechi, what’s happened?”

“I’m at the hospital- like I said everything’s okay. There was an accident, and my nose and, I,” he sighs, heavily, and you feel his exasperation through the phone, “I know you can’t drive, but they want me to have an escort, we could catch the train… I just really don’t want to call my driver.”

You know Akira’s been listening, but you throw a sideways glance over your shoulder at him anyway, a silent question swimming in your eyes. Of course you want to go, and even if you didn’t the thought of saying no would put you off enough to go along anyway. Indifferent, he shrugs, and though his face remains unmoving, flat in its expression, you reach to thread your fingers through his, feeling an air of hostility thickening between you.

“I’ll be there.” You reach for the top button of your blouse, fixing it back into place. “Just give me some time, sit tight.”

* * *

Akechi frowns sourly as you gently prod and pinch at his nose, fussing over him almost as much as those girls did in the city. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he could probably trick himself into replacing you with one of them.

“It looks really good.” You beam, though he catches it slip as your eyes land on the bridge of his nose. “Except for that.”

He swats away your gesture at the purple stain that swells across his face, and he self consciously presses his fingers to it again to make sure it hasn’t grown. “I’m hoping for it to heal within this next week.” His reflection catches his eye in the mirror across from him, and he winces involuntarily. “It’s an ugly thing, isn’t it.”

You don’t say anything, which he knows means ‘ _yes Akechi, I agree with you, but I’m too polite to say it’_ and he can’t help but sigh as he watches you walk across the room.

“I hate hospitals.”

The shift in topic confirms what he already knows. He’s thankful for it though, and he gladly decides to push on from the subject of his injury. “Miserable places, aren’t they.”

 _You should know_ rings obnoxiously in his ears, the reminder of unrequited love clawing it’s way back into his head. Impulsively, he puts a hand to his chest, poking between his ribs to see if he can feel for the blooms, an action he quickly plays off as picking some fluff from his shirt once you catch him fidgeting.

“Isn’t it time we got going?”

“Right, right, sorry.”

Just then he notices you’re still in your uniform, the flash of black catches the corner of his eye as you pull your blazer tighter against yourself. Must be cold outside.

“Were you staying late at Shujin?” he asks, collecting his briefcase and coat from beside him. “Or do you just really like that uniform?”

There’s a playful lilt to his voice that kicks open the door of humour for the both of you; his heart sinks a little when you don’t bite.

“Oh, no.” You blink once at him, and he swears he can see a flash of guilt wash over your face. “I haven’t been home yet… I uh…” There’s this action you do when you’re unsure, he often sees it when he takes you for coffee and you can’t decide what to get, the gentle ping of a hair tie against your wrist as you flick it back and forth- you do it now, flitting your eyes up to the ceiling. “Akira…”

“Right.” He shakes his head, a bitter undertone to the laugh that leaves his lips. “Of course.”

Beneath the harshness that bubbles on the surface of his stomach, regret nestles quietly, only now stirred by the harsh reminder that you have someone to go to. And you were there. And in all his selfishness, he dragged you away.

Which is why those flowers start to twist and climb up his insides like honeysuckle on a trellis.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Your adamancy that he didn’t only makes his heart sink further, the stuttered and broken response that turns your cheeks pink only paints _liar_ across your forehead, but he finds it all too easy to play it off with a teasing laugh and a pointed look.

“Come on,” you start, looping your arm through his. “We’ll be lucky if we even get to see the train before it leaves.”

* * *

Even though he insists that he can make it back to his apartment on his own (he’s only got a sore nose, he’s not blind), you demand to walk with him from the station right to his apartment, managing to get him to agree to split both your yen on a bag of ice on the way back.

He holds a cube between a tissue now, presses it gently to his face as they walk up the stairs of his complex together.

“ _Another_ e? Shit… let me think…Evening.”

“Okay um… Goro.”

“Hey!” You scowl, lightly thumping his side while all he can do is chuckle, gripping the bannister tightly. “You didn’t let me have a name earlier. Pick a new word.”

“Fine.” He sighs dramatically, wiping a drop of water from the end of his nose. “Green. Your turn.”

“Nose.”

He frowns.

“Didn’t you say that earlier?”

You grumble and stop, falling behind him on the staircase. “I don’t even know, we’ve been playing for so long. I think we’ve run out of ‘e’ words anyway.”

“Just in time too. Hurry up and get round the corner.”

He digs impatiently through his pockets, fingers scrambling around aimlessly for his door key. In a desperate attempt, he brushes his hand through each one again, maybe he just missed it the first time. Your hand on his shoulder stops his furious searching, and a long breath deflates him, almost like you’ve flicked an off switch. “Before you offer, I don’t need any help.”

“Okay,” you say, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Take your time.”

Finally, after one more search through his pockets and a quick peek inside his briefcase, he manages to find the thing, one plain silver key.

“You should put key rings on it.”

He eyes you curiously, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”

“The jingle of them might help you find your keys faster.” You smile as his expression softens. “Plus, they show people you’re not some boring old detective that hates everything. I’ll buy you one, soon.”

A beat. 10 seconds, he counts each one on his finger, where you both stare kindly at one another. He’s aware he’s not doing anything inherently wrong, but with the way he’s looking at you, he might as well be kissing you and inviting you inside.

All ten fingers clench to loose fists when he clears his throat.

“Goodnight. And thank you.”

“It’s nothing, honestly. I’m glad I could help.”

He isn’t sure whether to step forward and hug you or not, but he’s taken to long too think about it so he settles on offering you one of those rare, honest, Goro Akechi smiles, nodding politely before stepping inside, and _God_ he couldn’t move faster.

Inside, he feels the weight of the past few hours of his day fall from his shoulders, dropping down clumsily next to his briefcase. He takes the tissue from his face, soaked and limp from the melted ice, and throws it carelessly into the bin, flicking on his answering machine to listen to any missed messages.

As he listens to Sae’s voicemail, he feels a stiffness in his throat, like something’s creeping up to clog it entirely. Had he accidentally swallowed some tissue? No, he would’ve noticed. Whatever sits there flutters and folds against his tonsils, and he knows what it is before it makes its appearance.

A violent cough rattles his chest, and he tastes bitter pollen on the tip of his tongue. It starts to flood his gums, tainting the roof of his mouth and spilling between his teeth. Then he feels it.

It’s a delicate little thing, just as he expected from what he saw of it earlier, and it crumples from the force of the convulsion. He lets it fall from his lips, the buttery texture unknown to his skin as it lands in his hand.

One blue primrose. So overly innocent in its look that it just had to be sinister.

Hands trembling, he reaches for a clear bag in the kitchen, slipping the flower between the sheets of plastic, concealing it in its own little zip-locked home. 

While he can turn away and pretend it’s not there, the bitter taste of unrequited love still sits heavily underneath his tongue. He knows it’s a flavour he can’t escape.

And he might just have to die trying.


	2. Liars Hanahaki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am simply creating my own form of hanahaki because none of this makes sense to me. also quick note, i changed akechi’s period for deciding from 1 week to 1 month, makes more sense like that.

Akira can’t really say he’s ever been in love.

Parental love comes and goes as quickly as it takes for his sentence to pass and his bags to be packed, an acrid flavour now attached to a feeling born from obligation. And while he can’t deny the fullness of a fluttering heart at the thought of two pairs of warm welcoming arms waiting for him, it doesn’t fit in his big picture of love, isn’t quite cut out in the same shape as all the other pieces he keeps hoping for.

His love for Ann and Ryuji doesn’t come anything close to it either. Friendship bears a similar feeling, sure, but then again, it feels more familial than romantic.

He tricks himself into thinking he’s found it, cruelly inviting Makoto’s lingering touch as they wander through Chinatown, skipping coolly around heartfelt conversations through gestures too intimate to be considered friendly, finally feeling those same cool, all too willing hands pulling him in to a kiss he can’t quite go through with because guilt’s starting to kick in and he can’t afford to lose another friend. There’s a blandness to it, the sensation he’d been hoping for, and he finds himself mistaken, left to awkwardly wind his way out of a relationship that was never really his in the first place.

Each encounter misses something. And it’s that one measly word squeezed in front of the one he so desperately longs to speak.

 _In_ love.

Because the thing was, he had never felt that weight tug heavily on his stomach, involuntarily scrambling his insides until he had no other choice but to say those 5 words just to set himself free. No butterflies had ever filled him up to the brim, intent on making him feel weightless with the promise of genuine connection.

Anything that comes remotely close falls short of the feeling he chases after.

Unfortunately, you are no exception.

So he isn’t surprised when you come pounding on the door of Leblanc in the early hours of the morning, thrusting the palm of your hand in his face, revealing one beautifully bloodstained petal in the centre of it.

* * *

Three months ago you say it to him.

Hidden underneath his bed (Sojiro’s doing a bed check before he leaves and you’re _definitely_ not supposed to be there), listening to the broken and breathy giggles that leave yours and Akira’s lips, there’s a recklessness that prompts your confession, a youthful naivety that makes the moment feel just right enough for it to not tear the both of you apart.

The way Akira’s eyes flit over yours is disarming, to say the least. A hesitance lingers there, something between awkwardness and certainty, an odd combination that you can’t crack the code to. It’s too soft to be rejection, but there’s something to the neutrality of his glance that tightens your chest, bringing fear thick and coarse around your heart.

“I love you too.”

And after an agonising minute of hollow breathing, a silence broken by Sojiro closing the door to Leblanc, life is _perfect._

It’s with haste that you admit it, because you know the fickle way it operates, a full flame burning at full force with false promise and beauty that soon fades, only to die out as quickly as it takes to start sparking, purely to spite you.

But with Akira, it feels easier to say, because he is perfect. With him, you are perfect. Surely, you think, nothing can change that. The certainty with which you analyse him scares you enough to steal a beat of your heart, something which you quickly dismiss as a knee-jerk reaction to a rare moment of vulnerability, and you welcome Akira’s soft and searching lips.

You steer the gentle and fluttering kisses away from their inevitable build to something more intense, one slight tilt of your head to the left that breaks your contact.

He throws you a look, the quiet in the room unbreaking as he searches your eyes. That vapid, unreadable look fixes itself onto you again, and for a moment, you wish you’d never pulled away.

Words dance on your tongue, twisting to feelings you can’t quite articulate. “Do you…” the words falter, limply evaporate in the cramped space between wooden floor and wooden bed. “I think this is it for me. _You_ , Akira, you’re it for me.”

“You think so?”

You don’t expect to nod as eagerly as you do, but the up and down movement of your head is filled with so much vigour that Akira can’t help but smile. “I might not be for you, you don’t have to say it— I just wanted you to know.”

He hums, a short soothing rumble that softens his features, and finally, thank _God_ , that always rigid barrier behind his eyelids breaks.

Maybe you two have made it, found what everyone else craves and desperately pines after, and you made it look so easy, too. 

* * *

“Well?” Ann asks, the morning after Akira sends a hasty message to her and Ryuji, body so chock-full with an inexplicable buzz that his fingers barely manage to scramble out a coherent sentence (he ends up with ‘coffee, leblanc, tomorrow, important.’)

He notices, then, that the both of them are hanging on to his every (future) word: Ann’s wrist has stilled, the spoon with which she was stirring her tea clattering against the porcelain of her cup, and Ryuji, for once, is upright and waiting, eyes trained to Akira’s own.

He swallows.

“C’mon, man,” Ryuji groans, something long and drawn out that scrapes Akira’s patience thin. “Feels like we’ve been here for hours, just tell us already!”

“For once,” Ann sighs, a single shake of her head accompanying the frown that takes over her expression. “I agree with Ryuji. What happened last night?”

Any confidence he thinks he’s been building over the past 17 years gets suffocated, stamped out entirely by the admission of something so private and vulnerable. Still, he swallows his pride (heavy and unpleasant as it is) and leans, elbows first, on the table.

“She told me she loved me and uh,” he sucks in a deep breath, eyes practically burning holes into the table. “I said it back.”

He doesn’t have to look at Ann to see the hopeful look in her eyes. “ _Wow_.”

“Congrats. I never would’ve pegged you as a committed kinda guy,” Akira’s knuckles turn white as he fights the urge to kick Ryuji under the table -knowing his exact reference to his previous (and failed) girl chasing endeavours. “But I’m happy for you all the same.”

“Yeah,” he says, unusually bashful. “Thanks.”

There’s this weighted silence that follows, an uncomfortable thing that he thinks he should be grateful for, until Ann and Ryuji exchange a look and he knows their conversation won’t go the way he planned it.

“What next?”

“Jeez, Ann.” He swipes his fringe away from his forehead, sweat building on his brow. “We only said it yesterday, I haven’t planned out my whole life over night.”

Nervously, with the uncanny feeling of being told off by his parents, he fiddles with the corner of a spare napkin, hoping for fewer questions and just a bit more encouragement.

“We’re just worried,” Ryuji starts, and the vigilance with which he watched him earlier returns tenfold. “Y’know, after that whole thing with Makoto…”

“Well this is nothing like that.” The napkin rips slightly, a sudden jolt of desperation coursing through him. “I know this is different, I can feel it. You guys don’t have to believe me, question it all you want. What matters is that the two of us know we’re supposed to be together. It’s like… destiny- and maybe all my failed attempts were just leading up to her.”

Ann’s features twinkle with sympathy, and his shoulders sag helplessly. Nothing he says will convince them he’s genuine, and he blames his past self for that entirely. Regret was never a feeling he was well acquainted with, always dodging it nonchalantly by filling his life with more and more things to focus on (a job at the flower stall, working more hours at Leblanc, meet ups with Makoto) that it never had time to catch up with him. Now, with his feet buried stiffly in the mud, heels dug so firmly in, that even if he tries doing all those mundane things again, he can’t shake his first meeting with that heart-stopping feeling that lurches through him.

“Maybe he really means it.”

Akira’s eyes grow wide.

“I’m no expert on stuff like this but, I’m a guy and we don’t usually go around sayin’ things like destiny if we don’t really mean it.”

He fights the urge to jump up from his seat and cheer, which doesn’t show on his face (it remains as still as always), instead opting to tear the corner off the napkin completely, as if to equal the feeling it would bring.

“Thanks, Ryuji,” he says, but he doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

Ann stretches, shifts one leg over the other. “If you’re sure…” her eyes flit to Ryuji’s, as if trying to gauge some sort of clarification. “Then we support you, Akira. Just please be careful, okay?”

Even with Ann’s confirmation, he can’t help but feel entirely let down. They’re supposed to be his friends, shouldn’t they be jumping for joy? Clapping him on the back with broad grins, no trace of worry or apprehension etching its way into their words or features?

His ‘yeah, fine,’ comes out a little sharper than intended, perhaps too much of an indication at his disgruntlement. Even then, it goes unnoticed, and Ryuji starts digging through his pockets, desperate for just a couple more yen before he proposes sharing a bowl of curry between the three of them.

Akira says it’s too early, and Ann grumbles half heartedly, but they end up ordering anyway, and they mask the tracks left by an awkward conversation with laughter and cumin.

* * *

Akira blinks blankly at the ceiling.

He meant it. He’s sure.

Why would he say it if he didn’t mean it?

It isn’t like he feels nothing at all, his heart flutters and his eyes are always drawn to yours like magnets. People described love like that- he can’t be wrong.

Can he?

He turns on his side, forces his eyes shut, and blames his restlessness on a lumpy mattress.

He loves you- he knows it.

* * *

A week after you walk Akechi home, you sit by your television, eyes anxiously flitting between it and your phone.

You’d never been one to tune into his talk show appearances, something you only paid attention to over Akira’s shoulder in Leblanc, even then you were never really focused on him, too busy twirling your fingers around Akira’s.

Tonight, he has your full attention. Curiosity about his well-being is what drives you to channel 5 (he still hasn’t read your text, a quick ‘hello how are you, hope you’re feeling better’), so you hope to see him with his usual fair complexion, a healed bruised nose now powdered and proper underneath the stage lights.

You know these things are pre-recorded, but it’s unlikely that they date back any longer than a couple of days.

How long does it take for a broken nose to heal anyway?

If you’re being honest, you feel a little guilty. Every minute of every day for the past week had either been taken up by school or Akira, neither of which you could really skip out on to check in on Akechi. Granted, he’s your friend, you could’ve at least found a couple of seconds to drop him a message, or dedicated an evening to give him a call, and you’re kicking yourself for barely bothering at all.

Bold colours flood your bedroom with light, and you squint at the screen, now flashing orange with its usual opening sequence.

_‘And we catch up once again with our favourite high school detective, Goro Akechi.’_

At least you manage to get the channel right (you don’t know what Sojiro has it on all the time, so this is a lucky guess), that much you’re thankful for as you settle down between your bedsheets.

All long legs and confidence, Akechi folds himself neatly on the sofa, gloved hands resting on narrow knees as he flashes a wary smile, one that you notice doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

You don’t even bother to look at the presenters as they talk.

_‘It’s a pleasure to have you here with us again Akechi-kun. How have you been keeping since we last spoke?’_

_‘As good as one can, I suppose.’_

You scoff at the forced laughter that leaves the audience’s lips.

_‘That’s good to hear. We haven’t heard much in terms of your detective work lately, have you had any new cases?’_

“No,” you say, recalling the unusual amount of free time Akechi told you that he now had while you were on your walk home.

He echoes your statement, but with his princely flair. _‘Unfortunately, I’ve had to withdraw myself from my work. I’m quite… unwell, you see. In fact, tonight will be my last public appearance for a while.’_

Your body jolts forward.

What?

Half of you wants to click rewind to make sure you heard him properly, the other chides you and tells you to be patient, wait and see what he has to say next.

_‘I’m aware this is a sudden announcement, however, I cannot control my well-being whilst also maintaining an efficient work schedule on top of shows such as these. I aim to prioritise this situation first, in order to return soon in full force.’_

Surely he wasn’t talking about his nose? You’ve been staring at him long enough to see that the bruise had likely faded to a dull yellow by now, and still, a minor fracture like that wouldn’t stop him from working.

So what the hell is he hiding?

Irritated, perhaps, you argue, for no good reason, you click _off_ on your remote, tossing it to the other end of your bed. You _are_ his _friend_ , friends tell each other things, even big things like secret illnesses that threaten their work (and unbeknownst to you, their life).

Your fingers itch to write him another text, but ultimately you decide that it would only be something you’d later regret, instead pushing yourself up to get a glass of water, maybe to help cool your nerves.

With shaking hands, you fill a glass to the brim- it spills a little when you drink it- and with each gulp you find something slowly slink and slide down your throat.

Frowning, you take the glass from your lips, looking around suspiciously. You couldn’t feel anything stuck there, but just for good measure you clear your throat and _ouch._

Mistake.

But now that you’ve made it, you can’t back out because whatever it was that had started sliding back down had been pushed back up, and now it _hurt._

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. You can’t be choking, your breath, heavy as it might be, still comes in steady puffs, and your chest doesn’t feel tight. It feels just like a… petal, oddly enough.

Maybe you’d drunk from a cup that your mum put flowers in?

But that doesn’t explain why it hurts so much.

After two more coughs, and a worrying moment where you thought you might collapse, it dislodges from your throat, flying into your hand.

The first thing you notice is blood.

An innocent little petal, barely the size of your fingernail, sits delicately painted by scarlet specs of liquid, full and fresh in its bloom. Your first instinct is to laugh, strangely enough, because this had to be some silly trick.

But then you realise the pain in your throat has gone.

And this has to happen for a reason.

* * *

Googling _‘coughing up a petal’_ makes you feel insane.

The results that flash up don’t help either.

Thousands of scholarly articles fill your computer screen with the ‘Hanahaki Phenomenon’ titling each piece. But your mind’s too worn for anything like that, and your fingers brush across the touchpad to finally land on a small blog called _Flowers and Things._

You scroll through at least 2 pages of notes before you find what you’re looking for (your eyes scanning lazily over different types of flowers and their meaning). There, in big bold letters, **‘HANAHAKI CASES IN A RELATIONSHIP.’**

You gulp. The petal leaves an unfortunate taste in your throat.

Turns out that hanahaki in a relationship comes from only one credible source, and it’s one that plunges straight through your flesh and bones, right into your heart.

_Otherwise known as Liars Hanahaki. Fake, insincere love is the only known cause of hanahaki in committed relationships. One’s significant other may have lied about loving them, or not truly feel the same way. Hanahaki in this case, takes roughly 8 months to form._

Apparently, it’s a more volatile form, and sufferers are known to experience blood on their petals: something designed to display real, genuine, pain.

“Makes sense,” you grumble, fingers less and less enthused the more you scroll.

It seems like plenty of people are in the same shoes as you. On your search, you find the comment section, and as expected, it’s flooded with broken hearted souls who’ve just discovered the root of their petal problems.

You hate the idea of being one of them.

Yet, in all your discomfort at being labelled equals, you find yourself indulging in each experience, impulsively searching for signs that you should’ve seen long into yours and Akira’s relationship, signs that would lead you right to your desk chair, right onto that very webpage.

Another blow grips your heart when you find that almost every single commenter has had their flowers removed.

Chances of recovery are rare. You can’t force someone to love you.

Blinded by rage and an unhealthy need for answers, you force the lid of your laptop down and pull your coat over your shoulders.

Akira Kurusu is going to give you answers, whether he likes it or not.

* * *

Akira almost wishes it was raining. At least then it would force him into a state of melancholy.

Of course he feels remorse, and not just because he’s been caught, either. Regret greets him as an old friend, and it’s a bitter embrace that he’d hoped he’d never experienced again.

He knows he deserves it. Liars don’t get to keep prizes like you.

You’ve never experienced an uncomfortable silence together. Any quiet between you is normally filled with little whispers about insignificant things like the way Sojiro tied his apron that day or a half remembered story about something either one of you had seen. When there’s no whispers there’s touching, and _God_ he so badly wants to reach out and touch you, take you into his arms and apologise over and over, remind you that he’s a complete idiot (since he’s sure you’re already thinking it) and promise that he’ll do anything to cure you.

But you don’t want to hear it. And he knows.

“Never in my whole life have I met someone who is so good at something so cruel.”

Your words sting him like acid, and he lets them wash over him like thousands of little pin pricks. He knows you’re hurt, beyond that actually, and opening his mouth is probably his most dangerous bet. Always been such a good listener, Akira has, which is why he feels like he’s getting off a little bit too easily.

Until you start asking him questions.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? How long were you going to go through with this?”

“I didn’t know that this,” he gestures to your clenched fist, “would happen to you. I thought I could just-”

You cut in, that anger bubbling in your gut so furiously that it _has_ to spill from your mouth. “You could what? Wait? Pretend to love me while I was absolutely _fucking_ enamoured with you?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

And perhaps you do, but anger has pulled the wool over your eyes so any chances he has of reasoning with you are zero.

“You’re a _liar_ , Akira,” you spit, and he thinks that’s the most painful blow you’ve dealt. “A horribly _brilliant_ liar.”

All that fills his ears is the crack in your voice as tears start to spill down your cheeks, and it rings in unpleasant waves through his head, a sound he used to pray that he wouldn’t cause. If only he could just reach out and…

He grips the fabric inside his pocket to stop himself from touching you. He knows what he’ll be met with if he does.

“Nothing you say will change that.”

A long, dreadful silence joins the sound of your sobs in his head, and he wants to bash them out. Maybe it might fix him, knock a loose screw back in to place so that his heart feels fuller than it used to.

He could’ve _sworn_ he meant it. But he thinks he might’ve been playing both of you all along.

“I want to fix this,” he starts, stepping in closer to you. “ _Please_ tell me how I can fix this.”

“You shouldn’t have to ask me,” you say, and you look more wounded than you did when you walked in. “That’s where the problem lies.”

The penny drops. All the anger you’d walked in with, blazing and burning, had finally burnt out, now a dim, pitiful smoke rising as a result of your heartbreak. And sadness finally starts to creep in.

“I never knew,” his voice is small and foreign to his own ears, and you shake your head.

“You didn’t.”

It’s with a bittersweet nod that he accepts your agreement, knowing that this is as close as he’ll get. At arms length. You’ve both hit a stopping point, an acceptance to the inevitable.

Hanahaki makes no exceptions. You’d read enough about it earlier.

“Is this really it?” you sigh, so deeply that it devastates him. “Should I bother chasing after you?”

Akira really wishes he could say yes.


End file.
